Devours, as from a memory
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: It's a clear that it's a love story to everyone but the two of them. Apparently you have to be standing in the valley to see the mountain properly. Departing canon from TSo3 onward, a slightly Shakespearean tale of misunderstandings, lies, unreliable narrators and mayhem as Sherlock and John's story is told from the perspective of everyone but them. It's a love story, isn't it?
1. Scalding Hot, in paper

Um. Hello. I didn't expect to see you here. Well, I can _guess_ what you want to talk about. Let's step into the morgue, shall we? Oh, sorry, sorry. That sounds weird doesn't it? Really menacing. Ha! I just meant I don't want us to be overheard and, well, the corpses aren't going to tattle to newspapers anytime soon, are they? Ugh. Sorry. Sherlock tells me not to make morgue jokes. They're really not everyone's cup of tea. Well, here we are then. Right this way.

Look, I _know _you're curious. But believe me when I say, I don't know the whole of it. Sherlock's trusted me with a lot in the past but that's because I was _needed _for the fake death to work. He trusts me, I know that. But he also doesn't drop by to have tea and spill his plans to me on a weekly basis. I wasn't needed for this one and so I don't know _exactly _what's going on but if you figure it out, you'll let me know? I do worry about him…I…just worry. But let me tell you this: the papers have got it wrong, like always. I'm sure of that.

I can tell you how it started. Incidentally, I caught bits and pieces.

So I was helping him run some DNA tests on that Sussex Vampire case…did you help him with that one? I forget. He was busy running some tests and—

Look, I fell in love with him. That much is clear, even if you're an idiot. Not that _you're _an idiot, sorry! I just mean…I pay attention and I know that look, when he's not okay. He was running some tests and I could see he was preoccupied with something. He almost looked like _before. _He looked sad. And John was busy on the other side of the lab, helping with some tests. The last time Sherlock quietly fretted in a corner when he thought John wasn't looking…well, you know, bad things happened.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"As always, Molly, please don't feel the need to make small talk. Not only is it not required, it is actively discouraged on my part," Sherlock said, being his usual pompous self.

"I'm not making small talk. I'm saying you don't look okay. You haven't looked okay since John's wedding," I snapped.

He glared at me, a little hurt. I knew I'd crossed the line somewhat but I didn't care. I have no intention of going back to letting him walk all over me.

He went back to testing different types of venom without answering. He thought the eldest son was using one of the venoms as a way to fake vampire bites but he needed to know which venom it was…it was actually a really interesting case. Ugh…sorry, I've gone off track again.

So he went back to the venoms and he looked even sadder than he'd done before. He just gets this look in his eyes. It's like they go a shade darker and everything in his face becomes completely still and guarded. It's heartbreaking to watch, especially when you know he only does that when he needs to protect himself.

So I touched his arm, just a little, and I said: "Look, I understand that you may not want to talk to me about it but I know something's up. Something beyond the wedding itself. If you need help, like before, you can always have me…I mean, my help, not _me_. Oh god. Look, sorry. I'll go get you a coffee. You haven't slept in ages."

He looked at me for a second and his eyes softened a little. "Thank you," he said. And I knew he wasn't talking about the coffee.

"Two sugars," I said, trying to keep it playful as I walked away.

Usually, it takes ages to get Sherlock's coffee. He doesn't like the coffee from the canteen. Says it tastes like water. So I usually go to the coffee shop in the hospital lobby and the lines are insane. But my friend Jenna was there and I jumped the queue with her—felt really guilty but it was worth not queuing for fifteen minutes!—and bought his coffee and ran back in five minutes instead of the usual twenty.

But as I was about to walk back into the lab, I heard them bickering and I stopped behind the door, not wanting to walk in on a private moment. Sherlock can usually tell if you're about to walk into a room even before you do! But he notices almost nothing if he's wrapped up in John.

"I can tell there is something the matter with you," John was snapping at him.

"Can you really? Your powers of observation have somehow improved so dramatically overnight that you can deduce my mood by…what, exactly? The crease on my trousers?" Sherlock said.

"By the look on your face, actually."

"Oh, the look on my face. Brilliant. How stupid of me. I wish I looked at people's faces more often. I might have already solved this vampire nonsense if I simply looked at people's faces more often!"

"Please stop snapping at me. I know you're only trying to deflect and it's not working. You've been trying to avoid me since the wedding. You're the one who was secretly afraid that things would change—"

"I was not!" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, you were. You were. And now you're avoiding me and I can't imagine why. Not when I've told you a hundred times: I will be there whenever you need me. Do you hear me? When and where you like. I will be there."

There was this long, rather charged silence. I peeked through the door and they were both staring at each other furiously. Sherlock had his arms crossed defiantly, perched on a stool with an enviable sort of cool he has that no one else can really imitate and John was standing in one of his military postures, glaring him down.

I hoped they would stop fighting soon because the coffee cup was hot and sort of burning my hand.

"Now tell me," John demanded, "what the hell is the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Do not lie to me. Not again."

"Please, let it go."

"The last time I let it go—"

"Listen to me," Sherlock said and suddenly his face was all soft lines instead of angles. I really don't know how that happens but sometimes, usually when he's thinking about John or talking to him or about him, his face just melts a little and he looks open and warm. "Please. I know I have given you little reason to trust me in the past. But I swear to you that telling you would cause you a great amount of distress and danger."

"So it's something to do with me."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that but he just stared at John with a look that made me want to cry.

"I meant what I said at the wedding. I promise I will not let anything happen to any of you. I will protect you—"

"Bugger that," John snapped but he didn't look angry anymore. "I know you'll protect us. I need to know who's protecting you."

Sherlock looked overwhelmed and he just looked down at his shoes instead of saying anything.

"Tell me, Sherlock. And I swear, I will be there to help you—"

"You can't," Sherlock said.

"So, this is going to be like last time? Hmmmm? You leaving me in the dark and doing what you think is best for me and expecting me to be okay with that? Hmmmm?"

Sherlock looked up at him with this really really fierce look and he said: "It won't be like last time because I will keep you in the dark but I will not lie to you about it. I won't lie, John. I am faced with an unpleasant and very challenging problem. One that may require me to go away again—"

"Don't you dare!"

"And you cannot help me because I may need to go away and you need to stay with your family," Sherlock said, trying to look brave and placating but looking heartbroken instead. "However, let me tell you that I will not go away voluntarily. I will fight to stay here and I have dedicated the full extent of my not inconsiderable intellect to this very matter. I hope that I'll be able to solve the matter in time. But I will be honest with you. I am…distressed by the possibility of…"

He didn't finish that sentence but we all know what he meant. He was distressed by the possibility of leaving John again. My hand was really burning at this point. I'd forgotten to get one of those cardboard holder thingies from the coffee shop and I kept switching the really hot paper cup from my left hand to my right hand.

I looked over at John from the crack in the door. He really didn't look angry anymore. He looked…like he adored Sherlock.

"As long as you're trying to stay, I guess it's all I could ask for," he said with a really kind smile.

Sherlock smiled back. "I am. As I said, I will try to be there for you. Always. And if I am keeping this from you, it is only because I believe it will cause you unwarranted distress."

"And if you go, where will you be going?"

"Eastern Europe."

"And how long?"

"Six months or so."

"And then?"

"I…it's not clear."

They were both quiet again and then John just, sort of, smiled at Sherlock in this way he does whenever he thinks Sherlock is being brilliant.

"I'll get it out of you eventually," John said.

"No, you won't," Sherlock said, smiling playfully.

"Yeah. I will. I have my ways."

God, they were…flirting all of a sudden. How does that even work? One minute they looked like they wanted to kill each other and the next they were being all giddy and playful like they had a secret no one else knew about. They were staring at each other like they couldn't believe they got to be in the same room as each other. I wish someone looked at me with half the…

Anyway, the coffee was _so _fucking hot. My hand was properly burning and it didn't look like those two were going to stop looking into each other's eyes like they wanted to get lost in each other, so I was about to go back down to the coffee shop and double-cup the coffee or do something else to kill some time when suddenly Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the stare that was tethering them together.

He looked down at his shoes and said: "You can come in now, Molly. Your hand must be burning from that paper cup. Do come in. We're done with our little spat now."

I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I really did. I wanted to melt away. Or just turn around and leave. But he knew I was there, so I walked in, trying to hold my head high. My face—could feel the heat from it….I'm sure it was as red as a tomato.

And surprisingly, so was John's. He was blushing furiously, both hands clutching the table and his head hanging down. He looked so embarrassed, even though, technically, nothing untoward had been said or done.

"Jesus! Sherlock," he muttered softly, not looking at me. I couldn't have agreed with him more. I handed Sherlock, the only one of us who wasn't melting from embarrassment, his coffee.

He sipped at it and went: "Oh god. How did you stand there for ten minutes without peeling the skin off your palm? It is truly scalding hot coffee. Thank you, Molly."

I stammered something stupid and ran out of the lab. John said in a really soft whisper: "Do you let people catch us in moments to…what exactly? Amuse yourself?"

But he didn't sound mad at Sherlock, he sounded…I really don't know.

I didn't hear what Sherlock said in response, exactly. He said something about people being stupid and how "they always talk" and "misinterpretation". I was rushing down the hall, I didn't catch the exact words but then they both chuckled together and…well, can you really blame people, I guess they meant _me _in that case, misinterpreting? They sounded like just being together made them giggle.

Anyway, that's how it began, that's when I knew Sherlock was in trouble, but then there was the incident at the party…

Oh shit. Shit! Shit! I'm late for this report I was supposed to present at noon. Shit. Alright. We can talk later or you can go ask other people about this. I'm sure they'd know more, honestly.

Anyway, like I said. That's how I knew there was something going on. That's how it began. It began, as it always does for Sherlock Holmes, with John Watson. And that's what you really need to know, no matter what the papers say he did, I think it's pretty clear. He was doing it for…for John.

* * *

**A/N: My lovelies, please please review. I am writing this as a way to get excited about writing again after a lot of my work was lost a few months ago and I can't get excited to rewrite what I previously wrote. Reviews are welcome. As is constructive crit. I am telling this slightly Shakespearean comedy story of the Sherlock and John romance from the perspective of everyone but them. There will be some unreliable narrators, some characters finding themselves overhearing unfortunately tender moments but the plot will all come together once you add up all of their stories together. The Sign of Three somewhat happens in this story but it isn't super Series 3 Compliant. Updating Wednesdays. **


	2. I Perceive You Have Been

You really _are_ one of Sherlock's. Prancing into my office without an appointment! Oh my, he really has rubbed off on you. No doubt he's fed you some of his nonsense about "hiding in plain sight" and being able to "walk in anywhere if you time it correctly." I'll grant, his methods are effective in this area—it isn't terribly easy to fool my PA, bravo— but I must ask you to leave. I am _not _my brother. I do not entertain troublemakers and eccentrics from London's underbelly in my dingy little Baker Street sitting room at all hours of day and night. For God's sake, I am the British Government…the British Government'_s employee_. You cannot simply barge in here and expect me to pour you a drink and tell you stories about my brother. The position of Sherlock-Holmes-Chronicler is somewhat…filled. Or it was, at least, until quite recently.

Oh, you've just been to see Ms. Hooper, I perceive. The mud on your shoes and your watch are clear indicators. No doubt she has fed you some fantastical drivel about my brother's tender heart and how he was a victim in all of this. I will concede that he has allowed sentiment to cloud his judgment on no less than five occasions in the past four years. But, for all his faults, my brother is not an idiot. His mind is second only to my own and I guarantee you that his actions—while I admit they were entirely coloured by his regards for Dr. Watson—in no way resembled an Ian Fleming novel.

Well, I suppose you'd better take a seat. I feel the need to tell you what I can before you turn once more to Ms. Hooper, or worse yet Mrs. Hudson, and have them feed you their speculations. And my brother did involve you, after all. He does that. He involves people and asks them to spy, steal and sneak around for him without ever explaining a thing. I suppose you deserve a clarification or two. If you expect a serialized detective drama, you've come to the wrong man. I care only for things as they are, not as others wish them to be. That is the crux of the matter: as the events of the last few months unfolded, those close to Sherlock had the front-row seats but I guarantee that if you asked any of the usual suspects to tell you what happened they would all tell the story differently. I don't bother with stories, I recount things as I see them.

Ordinary people see what they would like and clever people take advantage of that. You seem moderately intelligent, so sit down and have the truth.

The facts are these:

When Sherlock was seven he refused to go to bed unless I read him _Treasure Island_.

When he was in sixth grade he made his first friend, who later bullied him because he was a coward and afraid that if he didn't turn on Sherlock, the bullies would turn on him. He was mysteriously expelled a short while later.

He almost died in my arms when he was twenty-five.

My brother adores custard cream and abhors peanuts.

He can identify no less than five hundred types of soil just by their scent.

For him, the sun rises and sets with John Watson.

Oh, you're surprised. You think because I don't care for sentiment I wouldn't be able to see that my brother is irrevocably in love with Dr. Watson?

It was for that reason that when Mrs. Watson went to my brother shortly after her marriage to John and told him of some records of her past that, if revealed, would put her safety and her marriage in dange, my brother acted immediately. Apparently, the man holding said incriminating documents had sent a not-so-subtle message to Mrs. Watson via the telegrams at the wedding.

It's a delicate matter, the matter of Mary Watson's past life. You may go on and speculate about the nature of Mrs. Watson's secret, I couldn't possibly comment. The feature of note is that Sherlock took on the task as if his very own life and happiness depended on it.

I warned him against it, of course.

"Keep out of this one Sherlock. He is far too powerful to be trifled with," I said wisely.

"Keep your fat nose out of it, brother," he said childishly. "I will do as I please regardless of your sage advice because I'm in love with John Watson and will idiotically throw myself into the path of a dangerous blackmailer so he can continue living his quotidian life in the suburbs with his seemingly boring wife."

Those weren't his exact words, maybe, but with Sherlock you have to read between the lines, you see.

Then I said something that I, perhaps, should not have. "Have you considered, Sherlock, that you can use this opportunity to keep him, after all?" said I. "I could engineer a new cover identity for her, tempt her to relocate safely to a destination of her choice—"

"Mycroft," he chided, looking for all the world, more hurt than when I had extracted him from a Serbian torture chamber, more vulnerable than when he was convulsing in my arms after a cocaine overdose. "She loves him. She wants the problem dealt with so she can stay with him. He's in love with her, do you not understand? I suppose you wouldn't. It isn't a matter of substitution: take out one person and insert another. This isn't one of your neat diplomatic puzzles."

"I only meant he would move back into Baker Street in that event," said I.

"Yes, he would. And I would watch him fall apart with grief until one day, a few years down the road he finds another woman he can spend his life with. And I would be glad of it because, at least, he wouldn't be killing himself slowly. It isn't only that he does not desire me, it's that the very idea you are proposing, that he spend his life with me in any capacity, even as friends, is an idea that has never occurred to him," he said.

"There is much in this world that hasn't occurred to him, Sherlock. He's not a genius," I countered, not unkindly.

He laughed darkly. "It is an idea that, if proposed to him, he would find laughable in the extreme."

"I'm only trying to give you what you want, Sherlock," I told him. After all, he _is _my baby brother and I do hate to see him…so desperate. It's unbecoming.

"He isn't a toy, Mycroft," Sherlock said, favouring the sight of his hands to that of my face.

"No. No, he is not," I conceded.

And I warned him again and again not to go toe-to-toe with a master blackmailer, offering several clever alternatives to Mrs. Watson's problem, but he simply refused to listen and concocted a plan to steal back any records concerning Mary Watson neé I-really-couldn't-tell-you-what. I believe he enlisted your help, to some degree, in the planning stages of this operation. As you may well know, things did not go according to plan and not only did Sherlock not retrieve the documents, he also rather showed his hand. It turns out the records didn't exist in a way that would allow their extraction. So he was faced with the following ultimatum by the blackmailer: either he was to take himself out of the picture or the blackmailer would reveal Mrs. Watson's secret, undoubtedly leading to her incarceration, if not death by the hands of those she had bested in the past.

My brother was once more asked to volunteer his own life for the safety and happiness of John Watson. No doubt you sense that's rather a theme here.

"She's pregnant, Mycroft," Sherlock said despairingly after his confrontation with the blackmailer, lounging in my office as if he owned it. My brother, for all that he expects and deduces the worst of human nature, is still continuously surprised by unnecessary cruelty in the world. "The type of people he would give the information to, they would order a hit on her without caring that she's pregnant. Not that endangering her in the first place is anything less than cowardly but an innocent child? Has he no sense of decency?

"He divested himself of anything resembling human emotions a long time ago, brother," I told him. "He's not a violent man himself but he feels no guilt or remorse about the existence of tragedy or violence in the world, he thrives on it."

"He wants me to take the undercover operation you mentioned, the one in Eastern Europe. I don't even know how he found out about it," he said, half-agony and half-petulant child.

"When it comes to _him_ I've found it best to assume he knows everything that may be used as a means of exploitation," I said, not betraying any of the panic I felt. "Stupid, Sherlock. This was his plan all along. Don't you see that he started to blackmail her in hopes that she would come to you? Don't you see that he set the wheels in motion because he knew you'd come for him one day and he wanted to preempt that by exploiting your connection to John? I tried to warn you—"

"I could not let John Watson lose the person he loves," he interrupted passionately.

"And do you realize the undercover mission Magnussen wants you to take would prove fatal to you in six months? Would John want that?" I countered, realizing I was being cruel. But he needed to be brought to his senses

He didn't reply but closed his eyes and sank further into the very chair you are now occupying.

"I can keep them safe, Sherlock," I offered sincerely, even though using national resources to protect a woman who would be incarcerated for life if the government ever discovered her identity would be a tricky task, even for me. "If you can persuade her to tell John the truth, I can arrange new identities for both of them. They could run—"

"They would have to run their whole lives. They would never be truly safe. They don't deserve to live that way," he argued.

"And what of you?" I pleaded. Again, I am not prone to displays of brotherly affection but neither do I want him dead in Serbia. For one, it is a ghastly place to die. Secondly, I went through such trouble to get him out of there in the first place and I hate to see my hard work wasted. "What of you? Do you really deserve to go on a death mission so a retired army doctor can continue living happily ever after in the dull suburbs of London with a former—"

Pardon me. I almost let myself slip there. What she did or did not formerly do is no business of yours.

"It is my fault that they're being threatened in the first place. And, lest you forget, brother mine: I would be dead at least ten times over were it not for John Watson," he reminded me. "Of course, I'm not making any sense whatsoever, my perceived love for John Watson has made me entirely delusional about my own self-worth and I am going to tragically throw my life away for him even though you are presenting me with viable alternatives."

Again, it could be that he he did not use those exact words but the sentiment was there, I assure you.

"He's given me two months to decide. I have two months to best him yet," he told me, that old spark of determination in his eyes. He was like that as a child too. Once he sets his mind to something he is absolutely lethal.

"This isn't a problem for you to solve, Sherlock. He perceives you to be a threat to his work. He knows you don't stand for what he does and that you will go after him one day unless you are removed you from the picture, one way or another. He chose the MI6 mission as an additional slight, as a way to remind you of the knowledge he has, as a way to remind you that he owns you and can kill you, can make you kill yourself."

He wasn't really listening to my dramatic speech. He seemed very far off.

"I have two months to fix this and get to stay here," he said to himself, getting up and pulling on his absurd coat.

"And if you don't?"

"Well then you should be pleased to tell your friends at MI6 that you recruited me rather successfully," he said with a sour smile on his face.

He genuinely thinks his safety means nothing to me. I suppose I haven't done much to prove him wrong in the past. Sending him to singlehandedly dismantle the most dangerous empire of crime in the world was, perhaps, not the best way to display brotherly affection. Not that I _have _much brotherly affection. I only worry that mummy will blame _me_ when his body inevitably turns up rotting in the Danube in six months' time.

"If you need anything Sherlock—" I started.

But he simply rolled his eyes at me and stomped out of my office before I could finish my sentence.

I wasn't entirely surprised when Dr. Watson made his way into my office only two weeks later, looking rather livid. He's not very bright but he has the instincts of a soldier. He knew something was happening.

"Ah, John," I said, pleasantly, even though I was in the middle of a phone call with Angela Merkel, which I had to promptly mute as I heard his footsteps approach my door.

"Look, I know he's up to something—" he said.

"Please sit and excuse me for one moment while I end this call," I said, taking Angela off mute.

"Danke schön, Angela. Ich stimme mit dir übereinen. Leider habe ich jetzt einen Gast. Können wir morgen weiter sprechen?"

"Du? Eienen Gast?" she exclaimed, laughing a little. "Ist es David?"

"Meine liebe Angela, you know very David and I have not been on the best of terms since his rather tactless remarks concerning immigration."

"Very well, Mycroft. I'll assume it is someone important. I shall speak to you tomorrow then," she said, signing off.

Dr. Watson at least had the good graces to look embarrassed. "Angela? As in Angela…? Was that…?"

"The German Chancellor discussing the current state of the European economy? Yes, John, it was. But, of course, your woes about my unfortunate excuse of a brother are far more important than the rising rates of inflation in the UK and the threat to the Euro on the continent. So, please, don't bother yourself. I'm sure with Angela's breezy schedule, I will be able to call her back at my convenience."

He looked abashed for a mere moment before switching back to anger. He had not been sleeping well, I could see. He was having nightmares, he was bored, frustrated, worried, putting on weight. In short, he was not doing well without my brother, who (I could now see) had done much good for him in their time together. How my brother could do anyone any good is beyond my comprehension.

"I appreciate that you're a busy man," he said in a tone that held no regard for how busy of a man I might be. He remained standing and narrowed his eyes at me. "But this is important. I know he's in trouble. He basically admitted that to me himself. I'd like to know what it is."

I considered this for a moment. What did I care about John's happiness? I had half a mind to tell him the whole of it and let him come to terms with the fact that he married a liar who my brother was sacrificing his life to protect. Not that Sherlock's death-wish is any of my concern but at the end of the day he is rather clever and rather good at legwork and John is just a retired army doctor my brother sort of picked out at St. Bartholomew's Hospital one day because he was bored. On balance it would make more sense to protect Sherlock's life than John's happiness.

But then Sherlock would surely murder me himself.

"If he's admitted that there is something amiss, then he's probably told you that you'd be better off not knowing," I said, instead.

"He thought I'd be better off not knowing he was alive!" he shouted at me. "Which was a rubbish idea."

"He's only trying to protect you but he's so very clumsy, my brother," I said.

"So I was right. It has to do with me," he said thoughtfully. "It's whoever stuck me in that bonfire isn't it? They're using me to get to him. Why? More importantly, how? More snipers? Who is it this time? But it's definitely something to do with me."

He really isn't as stupid as he looks, at times. As I said: soldier's instincts. He can perceive a threat rather accurately.

I didn't reply. I let him read his answer in my expression.

"I see," said he, rather soberly. "And you're alright with that, are you? He's your brother and he's clearly in trouble. I'm sorry to be the cause of it but I'm offering to help him. So why won't either of you let me?"

I wanted to say: because you're married to someone else and my brother is in love with you and desperate to keep you happy. But I showed restraint.

"I wish you would stay away from him," I said instead, the words escaping me before I could stop myself. I surprised myself with the display of an emotion I did not even knew I possessed. I felt a keen need to protect my brother from a friendship that was hurting him and a friend who wasn't even aware of what was being sacrificed for him.

He looked surprised at the emotion in my voice as well. "Excuse me? A little late for that, isn't it? He is my best friend."

"Yes and ever since you bestowed upon him the honour of that title he has been tearing himself apart to prove worthy of it," I countered. Now that I had shown my hitherto unacknowledged bitterness towards John's treatment of my brother's devotion, it was best to be fully honest about it.

He looked flabbergasted. "The _honour of…_what are you going on… He is my friend and I am worried about him. He is choosing to protect me and I'd choose to do the same for him if you'd let me help. Is he serious about going undercover in Eastern Europe? I just don't understand how a threat to me would necessitate that. Frankly, I don't understand anything about this situation other than the fact that Sherlock is in danger and that is unacceptable."

And there, you see? In his own way, he does _so_ love my brother. If only he could find it in himself to…but, well.

"I'm about to tell you an ugly truth, John," I said, my resolving finally cracking under his pointless needling. "You will undoubtedly agree when I've told you that you would have preferred not to have known. Before I go on, let me also note that Sherlock would not only murder me if he knew I'd told you this but he would also reject what little help he is allowing me to give him at the moment. Do you understand how vital it is that you keep this to yourself?"

John nodded resolutely.

"I cannot give you any details," I admitted. "But suffice it to say that through a series of complications and the works of a rather insistent enemy of Sherlock's, you can either have your friend or you can have your wife and child. Unfortunately, you cannot have both. Well, obviously, this is barely even a choice. That you would choose your wife and child over a friend is a matter of course. But however clear your decision may be, its articulation could possibly break my brother's heart, so he is gracefully removing himself from the equation without subjecting you to the difficulty of having to tell him that he has to go to Eastern Europe."

John was silent for several moments. His face flushed a light shade of pink. I could see that I had upset him greatly by the way he clenched his left fist at his side furiously. His chest heaved with deep, steadying breaths. He seemed preoccupied.

"_Jesus Christ_," he breathed out in his positively middle class manner.

"If you're so inclined," I countered.

"Mycroft," he said, half-pleading and half-demanding. "There must be a way out of this. He said…he has a few weeks to figure it out? Clearly he has a plan."

"The person responsible gave him some time to leave the country and never come back. He's hoping to utilize the brief window to find a way out of it. Not likely."

He looked heartbroken as he left.

The rest you know. Things went horribly wrong after that. You've seen the papers: certainly the papers leave out the backstory I've just recounted to you but the rest is there. Sherlock concocted an elaborate plan to blackmail Magnussen in return without informing me. He was unsuccessful. He ended up shooting the man in the head to portect Mary Watson. He's due to leave for Serbia in a few weeks, that's the other part you won't be hearing in the papers. Keep it to yourself, will you? It's an undercover mission after all. There. Yes, I suppose that's the whole of it.

That's how my little brother is going to die.

Satisfied now? Why are you even here? What is it you're so curious about? He…He is….

Forgive me. I haven't the faintest what's come over me today. This display of emotions is highly unusual for me. I accepted long ago that Sherlock was likely to have a short and tumultuous life.

Off you go then. Oh and if you see Greg Lestrade, do please send him my thanks regarding the Jefferson case. He was most helpful.

By the by, have you noticed that my brother always calls John by his full name? He always says "John Watson" when referring to him in the third person. It's curious. He doesn't do that when referring to other people. And they certainly don't have a formal relationship—John refers to him as Sherlock when talking about him to others. I'm not mentioning this for any particular reason. It's merely the observation of a trifle. But then again, I have erected and dissolved entire governments based on the observation of trifles.

* * *

**AN: The German translates to: "Thank you, Angela. I agree with you completely. Unfortunately I have a guest now. Could we speak again tomorrow?"**  
**To which Angela replies: "You? A guest? Is it David?"**

**The canon reference from the previous chapter was, of course, that Sherlock sarcastically says watching faces would help him solve crimes, when in fact, in Canon Sherlock Holmes solved the Sussex Vampire case that Sherlock is busy with by doing just that.**

**Please review, they warm me so on a cold winter's night. As any writer will tell you any reviews make us so happy and make us work so much harder. **


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